


One Eye is Taken For an Eye

by Bidawee



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, Confrontations, Heavy Drinking, Jealousy, M/M, Peer Pressure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-27 00:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15012929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: He’d been in Arizona for three years then, minor leagues added into the count, of course, which is about the maximum length of time Dylan could last anywhere before the trade talks kicked in and next thing he knew, he was carted off to Toronto. It must've been too much to expect that Mitch wouldn't have made a new best friend during his time playing there, but he at least had the dignity to put forth that he didn't expect Auston Matthews would hate him so much on arrival.





	One Eye is Taken For an Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta'd. I have to leave in a couple minutes so I'm posting this before I tease my friends anymore. Will come back to edit this more later; until then, cheers to y'all. Draft night tonight so keep your windows closed and tiptoe around the television.  
> Dedicated to Perry, Els, Jiggy; all you lovely people. You guys keep me writing and I will forever love you for it. I will always LOVE comments, so come talk to me below in the comment section, please.

The air conditioning was working overtime to keep the apartment in livable conditions, but even that couldn’t suppress the heat of a smoggy summer burrowing deep into the cracks of the complex. Dylan had given up trying to fan himself and started chugging Gatorade to counteract the effects of the smouldering glow from the sun. Mitch had taken to the bathroom to piss and probably douse himself in five litres of cold water by sinking into the bathtub, effectively making him the weaker of the two (and Dylan had lived in Arizona for a year).

Being immersed in the familiar beige wallpaper and same Mitch Marner-esque undercurrent that striped the room was like coming home. In all technicality, it was. Back in Toronto, only having to wade through a week’s worth of trade drama and half-assed goodbyes from former teammates to get the luxury of knocking on Mitch’s door with his tail between his legs because it all happened so fast and he didn’t know how to react.

The first days were spent crying it out--Mitch’s preferred method of emotional release that didn’t involve going to town on a punching bag. He remembered sobbing about how he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t wanted, wasn’t needed, and letting Mitch pick up the pieces when his eyes were swollen and he was hiccuping into his ginger ale. His confidence was being cleanly nipped by the analysts and television broadcasts looking at the trade from every angle; how the blowout from Arizona and Erie was about to storm the streets of Toronto and leave empty-handed with nothing to his name. Luckily, Mitch had seen him tuning in to the weekly broadcasts and shut him and the bad habit down before it could spiral into something worse.

“It won’t do you any good, man,” he said. Dylan begged to differ. He preferred hearing the insults to his face as opposed to finding out later, or worse, speculating in the dead of night.

But that was a month bygone, and in its place was a barrage of online gaming sessions as a form of therapeutic healing, or so Mitch had claimed. It was nice to kick his feet up and resume an old friendship, especially one so cherished. Mitch was capable of many things, but the pinnacle of his craft was his ability to cheer Dylan up under any set of circumstances. All the times he took for granted Mitch’s eccentric personality or fought to get annoyed with his advances would take a backseat to Mitch being his actual human crutch and shoulder to cry on from that day forward, he declared.

Overall, Toronto was nice. The city changed in appearance but never attitude, always the bustling metropolis that the television commercials down in the States broadcasted. It meant being within driving distance of his friends and family, reuniting with old teammates, and having late nights out on the town. Sure, the traffic was annoying at one in the morning, and rooming between Mitch and his parents was grating considering he had no idea how permanent his position was on the team and what lease would be fitting, but Mitch had offered a co-ed condo space for the nearby future, and that in itself was a lot to hold onto in the present.

He was focused on getting his energy up so that he could go on to play for his childhood team with vigour and prove all the sceptics and snobbish critiques wrong. Letting his skates touch the ice at least once and make the city a forever home. Form friendships that lasted years, hold the damned cup at least once, and then go out in a blaze of glory with his number hoisted up on a banner decorating the arena’s ceiling. That image was very much a mirage in the modern-day sector, but having Mitch back granted a sense of immortality he'd not had in a long time. It was like playing with Davo on his wing; knowing you had each other's back through thin and thick.

The latter’s name still uncovered fresh wounds. Seeing Mitch and him hangout was nice, sure, but there was always an elephant in the room. Like a bothersome hangnail you couldn't clip back. There was someone wiped clear from their lives, playing in Edmonton like the world depended on it and never looking back. Never for Dylan. He was just an old name and face to trace in team photos twenty years down the line with his kids.

So this was how he was coping; absolutely abolishing his diet plan and giving in to his cravings. Throwing popcorn at Mitch and then scrolling through his phone as he waited for Mitch to wash off the buttery residue on his fingers and get them a new case of beer to dig into. At the time, the sound of keys jingling at the door was just an afterthought. He was more focused on sorting through his snap stories to find what he had time to respond to and what he would leave to the wayside, assuming it was a misunderstanding.

Then, when the lock clicked, his thoughts flew to Mitch’s mother and father dropping by to check in on their son, and relaxed. It wasn’t like someone was trying to break the door down, so he let the hair on the back of his neck lie flat and only made a half-hearted attempt to paw at his shirt to be polite and keep up appearances.

But it wasn’t Bonnie Marner strutting in, a shopping bag in each arm in a vapid attempt to feed her own son, but instead, a six-foot tanned giant that moved with such confidence that one would suspect he lived there. The culprit of his entrance, the brass keys, were clutched in his right hand, that had formed a heavy fist. When he noticed Dylan, his initial instinct was to freeze up and squint at him like a peregrine falcon ready to pounce.

It was very surreal, maintaining that mutual understanding and acknowledgement of each other because this was Auston. Auston Matthews to be precise. The face of Arizona’s hockey, the acclaimed saviour of Toronto, and currently the man inside of Mitch’s apartment dropping his luggage to the ground by the discarded shoes they’d kicked off earlier.

Auston gave him a solid look of confusion, with little intrigue present. “You’re not Mitch.” Dylan followed his eyes and noticed Auston was looking intently at his bare chest and the shirt tossed aside.

“Uh no, no I’m not? Um, Dylan. Dylan Strome. Uh, just got traded?” He stood up and walked over to shake his hand. Recognition burned into Auston’s pupils and his stance relaxed almost immediately.

He took Dylan’s hand, giving it a firm shake. “Yeah, I remember you. We’ve had our fair share of shoutouts. Good to see you.” Dylan retreated back, tugging his shirt back on to be courteous as made a mock gesture as to motivate Auston to sit down on the couch next to him. He refused with a simple shake of the head and an “I’m fine, you liking it here?”

It was a tired question by that point, but to the guy’s credit, it looked like he’d just stepped off the plane. He didn’t know any better. “I-It’s better than Arizona. Not as hot, I guess.” Auston looked infinitely amused by the statement.

Auston managed to scoff, “not as hot? That’s an understatement.” Carding a hand through his floppy hair, it was like he was making a mockery of Dylan. He looked like an honest-to-God supermodel parading his confident demeanour in front of a helpless observer.

It was almost intimidating, because Auston didn’t even play in Arizona, and yet, he held so much political and financial power there. He was in his element regardless of where they put him and he wanted that. He was older than Auston but it was difficult to not look up to.

He tried to mirror his calm and cool personality.“Well, ’m not like you. It was unbearable. And I was only there for half a year. Kinda.”

“You seemed to do alright in the AHL, enough for word to pass down the grapevine.”

Dylan laughed to himself. “I don’t know about that. I played as best I could but, I guess it wasn’t enough.” The insecurities leaked through his shaky tone, blatantly slapping Auston in the face. Auston’s expression straightened in a near millisecond.

“Hey if Toronto wants you, then you’re good enough.” He clapped Dylan’s shoulder, pulling him close for a side hug. “Welcome to the team bud. I’m guessing you and Mitch are hanging out?”

“Yeah, he’s wanted to get together for quite some time now. So, I’m just, ah, here.” Auston mouthed at his top lip, pulling it back and then puckering his lips as he took in the surroundings--the many beer cans and open chip bags salvaging the few cheat days nearing the end of the summer---and came to a willful conclusion. His large shape backed up, giving room between them.

“Well, I don’t want to disturb you, so I’ll just-” A blur of motion sprung up from behind Auston, signified in all its glory with the bathroom door being thrown open. Mitch came barrelling down the hall, surging into Auston and forcing him two steps back with the momentum he’d cooked up.

“Auston!” he shrieked, a laugh overcoming his speech. The weight he’d put on over the summer disappeared the second Auston took him in his arms, two legs encompassing his waist as Mitch clung for dear life.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Auston said, only partially exasperated. Mitch knocked against his chest a handful of times before he resumed hugging him.

“You asshole! You broke our snap streak and you said nothing! What’s with the cold shoulder whenever you leave the country? I’m not a stranger--you don’t have to be one to me.”

“I was busy. Babs came to hang out. Y’know, stuff happens.”

“Well, what are you doing here? How’d you get in?” His hands flew up to Auston’s chin, mouthing at the thick stubble growing there. “And when did you get this? You look like, thirty dude. I can't even grow out my sideburns.”

Auston laughed to himself, hands resting on top of Mitch’s. “Remember, you left a key to me.” Mitch hummed, hands dropping and bringing Auston’s with them.

“Oh yeah, that’s right.” Mitch dangled his pointer finger in front of Auston’s nose, waving it around. “Glad to see you’re putting it to good use _not_ saving my life.” Auston lightly swatted the finger away, instead, taking Mitch’s wrist and holding it close.

“Yeah, well when you agreed to let me take a key you also agreed to random inspections to make sure you didn’t drink yourself into a coma,” he said. Dylan saw him connect eyes with both the television and him in rapid succession, a tinge of scepticism present.

Auston laughed to himself, tearing the strange expression away and focusing back on Mitch. “I was going to ask if we could play Fortnite or something, but it looks like you’re already, uh, busy.” Mitch turned around to smirk at Dylan, dimples exaggerated by how he scrunched his nose up. Without making any verbal connection or agreement with Dylan, Mitch was tugging Auston in the direction of the couch, clearing the red plastic bowl of Doritos so that he had a place to relax.

“Nah man, come sit on the couch with me and Dylan. We could use the company. And you need to tell me all that you’ve been up to, since apparently it wasn’t important enough for you to tell me through text.”

x

Dylan missed the mileage for development camp by about three years, but training camp still felt like a poking and prodding experiment to see if he qualified for the bang-ups and ankle twists he’d be experiencing in the coming eight months. A rush of new and familiar faces took dominance over all of the drills, turning what should have been hockey-oriented talk into a guess-who game of hockey exchanges and awkward fistbumps that didn’t have the background to make them truly meaningful. At least Connor Brown was still kicking, though with a few years hanging off the edge of his brow, a thin stubble already pecking the bottom of his chin.

He and a few others from various get-togethers, tagged posts, and juniors were up in his face, but he preferred to stay close to Mitch’s side until the hype died down. Mitch, for all intents and purposes, was his anchor. The one constant in a sea of change, despite how ironic a title like that was pinned on a guy like him. One thing was for sure, Dylan didn’t undermine his help at all, donating friendly hugs and cheek kisses whenever he was in close proximity.

Auston was also a source of comfort, however small. It was nice having someone to talk to about Arizona and he assumed the feeling was mutual. So it conceded in Auston telling tall-tales about Mitch in the city and the story of him buying his first winter coat in Toronto while Dylan took him down memory lane with location and name drops from Arizona. Unsurprisingly, Auston knew a lot of his trainers and coaching staff on almost every level, and it was something they could bound over when they weren’t being run ragged on account of endurance exercises.

It was imperative he made the team this year. He wasn’t going to be held back in the AHL for another teeth-grinding year while he watched his comrades leap into action from the national television screens. Him being in Toronto only cemented his position. He pushed himself beyond his physical limits, tried to lead the pack in pacing tests and laced his skates up for the scrimmage faster than any other member on the team.

This year, he wasn’t going to be left behind.

Old rivalries died hard; he was pitted against Mitch more than once and every time he was he fought tooth and nail for the puck. Tried to show off his development with clean stops that sprayed ice up in a fine sheet and stickhandle pucks through obstacles with as much ease as his calloused hands could muster. Each second was a test of skill he’d always been underestimated for, and with apologies to the players in the minors, was not going to be cut again when he knew he was more than capable.

It was long, hard work. He was lucky to have Auston, Mitch, and Connor Brown around to drag himself through the brunt of it and remain standing upright. It was a bit too good to be true, as the group’s size diminished in numbers soon enough; Connor resumed old friendships and Auston was beginning to opt for the victorious mindset that had him separating himself from his friends in favour of hockey drills and regular visits with the physiotherapist. Movie marathons and dietary sabotage nights became the sacred tradition that tied him and Mitch together.

And thank fucking God, it paid off. It paid off in spades. Mitch got to the news first, woke Dylan up with a hailstorm of texts all in different shapes and sizes parading the accomplishment of earning a spot on the fourth line. It was no gold sticker on a report card, but the passability of it had him twirling Mitch around at the next available optional practice like they used to do at World Juniors. He couldn’t help himself; it was entirely involuntary. At the moment there was nothing he wouldn’t do to exclaim his joy.

He ran laps on the ice, side by side with Mitch. Went out to celebrate eating fall-off-the-bone nice barbecue rib dinner with him so that they could be measured for suits later in the evening and return to his apartment to squeeze in more gaming before the pre-season officially began. That, and the oncoming news and appreciation from his family sent him skyrocketing to cloud nine.

Like deja vu, Auston embellished on their condo’s terrain again, this time citing a text Mitch hadn’t responded to as the reason for his visit. He pulled Mitch away for a few minutes, chatting much too low for Dylan to catch before he tugged his light jacket back on and made a break for the couches.

“Hey Dyls,” he said, though his eyes were mainly neutral. There was no brimming admiration or humour inside of them, replaced with deep bags likely from the stress of the rapidly approaching season.

“Hey Aus,” he said in tune, “what’s up?”

“Just wanted to remind you that the team has little casual get-togethers; we talk about them in the chat. You should join us sometime.” He smiled, but again, it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked indifferent to the entire conversation, brushing off the piercing look Mitch gave from across the hall as he leaned against the shoe rack opposing the door.

“Sure thing,” he said back, cutting the topic short. He was willing to go and mingle when the time came. For now, it was a brief week of indulgence before he got to work. Auston appeared unsatisfied with ending it there, but Mitch was quick to usher him out the door, yanking his shoes back on for him as his hands flattered by his low waist. Auston chirped something sweet at him, the tone of voice morphing to meet the demands of his charismatic tune, but Mitch didn’t respond as hoped and could only arch his eyebrows as the door shut Auston out.

Mitch returned to the couch and flopped down, groaning. Dylan yanked at a strand of hair behind his ear to get his attention.

“What did he want?” Mitch’s hand wiped across his face, head turning after a second of resistance to look Dylan in the eye.

“Complaining about me not bonding with the team, as per the usual. Auston’s a sucker for team dynamics so be prepared to have him yank at your strings for a whole year,” he groaned, though it didn’t sound entirely unpleasant. Just tired. Dylan guessed he was missing more snippets from what conspired between them, but didn’t see it as fit to prod in their private business.

Wordlessly, he handed Mitch a controller already synced with the console. The look of gratitude he got in return said enough.

x

He’d attended his fair share of Leafs games back when he’d been in the bosom of his youth, out soaking in the crowd fanfare and smell of popcorn and hot dogs prevalent in the ambience. It was different from the view of the ice, where the vibrations from the jumbotron reverberated inside the very core of his being and pushed a wave of adrenaline through him, pulsing in his gloved fingers.

The announcer honest to God said his name, during the home opener, in his childhood home and he could have cried. The blue lights pierced him the second his skates hit the ice, spotlight following him as he skated a brief semicircle around centre and parked himself beside Mitch, who in turn bumped his shoulder. He too, looked like he was riding off of a high.

The shrieking bellows climbed to a crescendo as Auston’s name was announced. He flew onto the ice like a knight charging into battle, saluting the crowd with his stick before pulling up beside Dylan, still as a statue. He paved the ice with the flicker of success, adoration pouring in by the mouthful, spoon feeding him the love Dylan had never been capable of owning while in Phoenix. He could only freeze in awe, taking a step back when Mitch inched forward to give Auston a fistbump, which was complete with a smile back from his friend. The announcer moved on to applaud the remaining players streaming in, but Dylan couldn’t shake off the feeling of Auston’s presence, his eyes skimming over him and Mitch repeatedly, as if tracing the scar of a wound with your tongue. The tips of his toes flushed with heat, bubbling inside of his skates all the way to his thigh; a concoction of adrenaline and intimidating turning him into goo.

He and the others retreated to the bench, leaving the front line to take precedence at centre ice and meet the Senators face-to-face. Brown and Kapanen flanked him, their line a reenactment of the lines he remembered seeing blaring on the television only the year before. The oddity of playing on the fourth line was still numb; in the big leagues he was happy to have the approval from the coaches to be present, even if he was watching a new, better, younger player take the spotlight and appreciation.

The game started with a bang, Nylander assisting on a Matthews goal only five minutes into the first period as the Senators scrambled to make sense of their defence. Babs made a few rounds to the back of the bench, tapping Dylan on the shoulder once to relay a few line changes and expectations for when he took centre. Connor Brown was able to share a few passing words from his side, patting Dylan’s knee, which was jumping like the wheels of a car driving over potholes without running out of gasoline.

He hoped his mother and father could see him from the crowd, hoped they were wide-open smiling and wearing his jersey, whatever year it may be from.

Getting the opportunity to skate was something idyllic, the metallic taste in his mouth from chomping on his lips the taste of something completely foreign. It was like rockets were attached to his skate blades; he was flying. Flying up the side of the ice, reliving his Erie days with two skilled players on his wing and playing a game of keep-away with the puck as it spun into their end of the ice.

Despite practice, it was like jamming a square peg into a circle hole. It took some adjusting, a few giveaways, and, unfortunately, a goal for the Senators, before they found their stride, and by the third period, after suffering through a few long-drawn conversations in the locker room about expectations, Kapanen was moved up to play beside Auston and Nylander was kicked down to the second line. It wasn’t their fault, not really. The assistant coaches assured him that tossing the line arrangements into a blender and hoping it would change the score was not a rare tactic implemented by Babcock in times of desperate need. It sat at a stagnant 1-1 after almost thirty minutes of play, the clock ticking as the Leafs fought tooth and nail for the victory.

The referee's whistle yanked him out of his stupor on the bench, in the process of him spitting out water. A crosscheck down the ice out of his field of sight had given them a two-minute advantage; finally, the opportunity to come out on top. The arena bustled with caterwauling fans, the familiar tone and accent of the instrumental track supercharging the excitement. The sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, underneath his new navy blue helmet, was now burning him at the seams until he could hardly stand still.

The first line went out, yielding very little success. Auston hit the post on a slapshot and Rielly got lucky with a turnover that hit a Senator in the shin. Dylan watched with bated breath as they scampered, frustrated, back to the bench for a much-needed change.

“Marner, Strome, Kapanen, you’re up,” Babcock barked, an additional shove pushing Dylan over the boards and out onto the battlefield. Dylan didn’t have the time of day to think about playing beside his best friend, could only look at the rubber disk flapping around the opponent’s blue line just begging to be tossed into the netting.

Kapanen was able to swipe it up and pass to Dylan, who was met with immediate resistance and tried to work his way through before giving up and passing back. Kapanen tried a backhanded shot that rebounded and landed right in Marner’s lap, where an easy shot netted the puck to the absolute exhilaration of the fans watching behind the glass.

Erupting with blue and white specks of light and a bellowing song, Mitch met Dylan halfway and gave him a quick-pressing hug before they were joined by Kapanen and two of the Marlies defenseman Dylan had yet to learn the names of. It was a circle of shrieking for a good ten seconds before they had to split and trail back to the bench for high fives, spotlight still stalking Mitch with precision.

He got a pat on the back from Babcock and a few of the veterans when he was finally able to sit down and catch the scraps of the game. Kadri too was able to pocket a goal of his own, turning the score 3-1 with minutes to go. Meanwhile, Mitch was still giggling on his arm, play-by-playing what had just happened like it was the second coming of Christ. Instead of exasperation though, there was only the allure that he was back here, with Mitch, finally able to say they’d scored another goal on the same line together before the end of their careers.

Getting to salute the crowd was the cherry on top of the vanilla sundae, the media not so much. But despite the bombardment, the questions were nothing out of the ordinary that media training couldn’t handle, and he was able to answer them with ease. The locker room was something else entirely, with Dylan only having to park himself in his stall before Mitch was over and in his lap, still decked out in his under armour.

“After all these years, you still got it,” Mitch said, right in his face. “We make a good team.” He sounded drunk, but the euphoria made up a darn good excuse for him slobbering over Dylan like a week old puppy. Dylan laughed into his mouth, giving him a playful shove to give himself some distance before stripping his helmet and skate laces to begin the undressing process. More wolf whistles followed the defence and goalie’s departure into the showers, heckling little jeers that bypassed team names and divisions, the ones he’d heard back in Arizona.

He made quick work of his equipment to ensure himself some privacy before the heat of the pack entered, but just as he was throwing his jersey aside to hang it up, he did catch a look from Auston, on the other side of the room, skates still on but laces spooled out in front of him. His eyes were not friendly, a bitterness overcoming his dark pupils and pinning Dylan to the wall behind him.

He managed to shake it off and leave the room, meeting up with Mitch inside and finally being able to wash the grime and stench of sweat out from where it’d seeped into his skin. All the while, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he’d done something wrong. Broken tradition, maybe. Said something backhanded. He’d have to apologize to Auston tomorrow.

But when he exited, fluffing his hair and tugging on his game-day suit, Auston was all smiles. Meeting up with him at the edge of the locker room and the mouth of the equipment room to ruffle his wet locks and flash a newsworthy smile.

“Hey Strome,” he called. “Good job out there.” Taking his leave seconds after, leaving Dylan behind with more questions breeding in the seat of his conscience.

x

The celebration at Real Sports was more than ceremonial, and portions were plentiful as they made their way to the tables they’d claimed. He’d eaten his fair share of popcorn chicken and split a basket of honey garlic chicken wings with Mitch, who was not above trying to get himself plastered with a pitcher of beer in one hand and his other around Dylan, keeping them stuck together.

“Ya drink yet?” Mitch jabbed at his armpit, getting a flinch from Dylan. “I need’a ride.”

“You didn’t think to ask before you downed three beers?” Dylan rubbed at his eyes as Mitch whined at him, legs curling up underneath him in the booth. He was happy to let Mitch suck the heat out from him, but he was in a comfortable state of complaisant, the food compensating the tiredness leeching his energy from him. Leaving was not an option.

“You dun’t ‘ave to be a dhick,” Mitch groaned. “I’ll ‘ust Uber.”

“Marns, you look like a friendly octopus, give the kid some space,” Kadri laughed. “Sorry Strome, he can’t hold his alcohol at all. Probably shouldn’t have egged on the two Coronas.” Mitch reached over across the table, almost knocking over the plate of poutine some imbecile had ordered, and tried to slap at him, but failed miserably. Dylan took responsibility for tugging him back and firmly planting his ass back on the leather.

“Stay here Marns,” he muttered into his ear. “You can’t coordinate for shit right now.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t have drunk such shitty beer,” Kadri crowed, throwing his head back. The man’s cheeks were burning too, but that wasn’t unusual from the crowd. The rest of the Leafs were just as boisterous, using the game as an excuse to get absolutely shit-faced.

Thirty minutes later, Mitch had gotten some food into him to absorb the alcohol but was still hunched over like he’d run a marathon, laughing at one of Connor’s unfunny jokes. He’d had to lean on Dylan to keep from collapsing on the floor and probably making drunk snow angels for their entertainment.

Dylan was ready to call it a night. The noise was becoming cumbersome and the light show from the multiple television sets only further upsetting his retinas. He’d already paid for his share, the same for Mitch; who could pay him back later.

“C’mon Mitchy,” he groaned, trying to lift the deadweight man up and out of the booth’s hold. Someone pulled around behind him and tapped at his waist--he noticed right away that it was Auston, who looked a bit fuzzy around th _e_ edges but was ultimately unaffected by the alcohol.

“I got him,” Auston said.

“It’s fine,” Mitch said, a little bit more sober, but only a little. “Dyls said he’culd take me.”

“I think you’ve piled on him enough for one night,” Auston replied, taking Mitch from Dylan’s hands and helping him to his feet. “Up you go.”

Auston was like a crane, able to transport Mitch in and around the bar patrons and waiters to the edge of the railing where he could hang on while Auston tossed a few bills on the table. Mitch was still unsteady on his feet, humming to himself over the music playing in the background as he waited for his chauffeur to return to his side. Together, they embarked down the stairs to the front door, Mitch taking great strides to attach every inch of his body to Auston during the span of his escort.

“Byeee Dyls,” Mitch sang, still wrapped around Auston. A few hockey fans sitting at the nearby table hi-fived him as he left, walking like a two-legged horse, past reception and into the streets of Toronto alongside Auston.

Dylan waved him off, giving himself a minute to reoriented himself and chuck a few more fries into his mouth before making arrangements for his own ride home.

x

The first game in Boston tugged at old scabs, and the arrival at the so-called haunted hotel was without much personal fanfare regardless of how much the waiting staff tried to appease them. The flight from Carolina had been met with unreasonable turbulence that kept them all up, and combined with pre-established bitterness made the entire endeavour a work in progress that they’d prefer to scrap. Mitch was out of it the second the elevator doors flew open, bags slung over his shoulder and threat voicing a quiet drawl as his right hand thumbed the room key. Dylan’s road roomie, Dermott, was still downstairs bartering with the staff, or so he assumed.

“I'm beat,” Mitch whined into his ear, doing a needless twirl that scattered his hair in every direction. Dylan groaned, tugging his luggage up behind him.

“I know, you've been complaining about it for the last ten minutes straight. Be thankful I have the patience of a saint.”

“You know what we need?” Dylan tilted his head up look down at him. “A good Marns and Stromer cuddle session. One on one. That'd make me feel real good.” Mitch stretched out the vowels like a five-year-old.

The flashbacks to juniors became more prominent than ever, the nostalgia blinding. But he tried to mask the optimism with a weak frown. “Yeah, the trade-off being a puddle of drool on my shirt and a spine bent out of shape.”

“C’mon Dylan pleeease.” Mitch grappled with his shoulders. “Just this once. It'll be nice.”

“What would be nice?” A voice prodded from behind them. Dylan turned to see Auston emerge from the stairwell, bags under his eyes more pronounced than ever. Mitch made a sloppy attempt to wave at him, which Auston humoured with one of his own.

“Hey Matts,” Mitch greeted, walking around to weakly butt his head into the crook of Auston’s shoulder. “Do you mind if I room with Dylan?”

Auston faltered, his smile vaporizing. “I thought we were going to room together?” he said, distraught. Mitch tried to make up for it with a smile, but it lacked his normal enthusiasm that could bandage problems like this.

“Yeah but I feel like I should be there for Dylan. It’s been a long road trip, especially for him.”

But Auston’s dismay was short-term; he brightened as if experiencing a rebound the second Mitch finished his sentence. “What are the chances I can steal you away next time then?”

“Sure,” Mitch said, already distractedly pulling Dylan away. “C’mon Dylan, I need to teach you all the tips and tricks to rooming with Marner.”

“You think I don’t remember you waking me up at three in the morning because you wanted the blinds drawn?” Mitch laughed into his chest, his left hand snaking into Dylan’s back left pocket to steal the key card before he could further complain.

“Just tell Dermy before you two run off,” Auston called out, but Mitch had already progressed down the tiled halls and began fumbling with Dylan’s card until the light on the door flashed a neon green. The little triumphant ding and the hum that followed momentarily distracted Dylan from the attention-starved hockey player still beside him, glowering like someone had stomped on his birthday cake.

It was only fair to apologize; Mitch could be very impulsive at times and it wasn’t fair to Auston. Dylan trudged back in front of the centre, flashing the most inconspicuous look he could.

“Hey, thanks for letting me stay with him.” Auston froze up then and there, eyes swiping up and down as he surveyed Dylan.

“Yeah about that,” he drawled, fingers tapping at his sides. “I know he said he’d room with me again because you know as well as I do that it’s an empty promise. Mitch forgets. He’s my friend too, so uh, next time maybe?” The empty hostility burned at him; it should be there and by all accounts it was, but Auston still looked neutral enough to be more of an amicable chide than something out of pure malice. Still, it unnerved him, having the encounter up and front.

“Y-Yeah. Don’t worry. Just this once. Well, good night,” he said. Auston nodded once, then turned on his heel, dismissing them both with a simple “night.”

In all honesty, playing hockey and travelling the world was exhausting enough already without having to deal with Auston.

x

Mitch’s gloves were always snug around his wrist when he tugged them on. It was once a tradition for them to share gear every fifth game, a good luck charm they’d come to know very well throughout their time playing for Canada. Dylan was the first one to suggest they revive the practice after a particularly gruelling media rehearsal where Mitch bent to some of the criticisms of his play and looked like he needed a pick-me-up. Mitch’s face had lit up like the fourth of July, and, just like that, they were back in motion.

He’d especially liked the little smiley faces Mitch had made a habit of leaving on the lip of the white edge. Sometimes they winked, other times they were heart eyes. It never failed to make the corner of his lips curl up.

But in the midst of pre-game passing, as he chided Mitch for his vapid attempt at a side length split, Auston pulled up, helmet aside and forehead creased until the tips of his eyebrows touched. Without asking for permission, his hand took hold of Dylan’s and held it up until he could read the inscription on the palm.

“This isn’t yours,” he said plainly. An acute observation, considering the sixteen was scribbled in on the branch of the thumb in bold blue letters.

“Mitch gives them to me now,” Dylan said in reply. Mitch grinned from where his legs were spread open, the visible strain making his legs shake.

“Oh,” Auston said. His tone was flat. Or, well, flatter than before. It was devoid of the tense inflection that was plaguing it up until that point. He took his leave soon after, returning to bid time with Nylander and Hyman, separate from the two of them.

The hearts and smiley faces never appeared on the gloves again.

x

Gradually, the blue and white propaganda became more familiar, the fans easier to block out, and the city noise another afterthought that he could drown out with a nightly dose of self-doubt. What he couldn't get used to was how his new teammates distanced themselves from him, going to great lengths to put space between him and them; not sitting beside him when fetching their all-inclusive hotel breakfast or acknowledging him long enough to ask for him to pass the ketchup even when he was seated in a convenient spot in front of it. He'd pinned the beginnings of it as growing pains--like being a new kid in high school. Cliques had already made serious progress, friend groups concrete and build on blood, sweat, and tears that he hadn't been there to experience with them. Even despite that, when December reared its ugly head and he still had no friends on the team besides Mitch and the occasional Connor Brown, he suspected foul play.

Connor, being an old captain and winger, was courteous, but nothing more. He spent a majority of his time with Hyman and Andersen superglued to his side, perfectly happy with the new development that kept his time occupied. The Marlins kids had their own thing going, and talking to Mitch was a constant battle of his wits against Auston’s.

And damn, was the latter more annoying than horseflies in July.

Whenever people talked behind his back, Auston was in their herd. The culprit stepping on the back of his shoes or kicking his equipment bag aside was obvious. And even though Dylan wanted to let sleeping dogs lie and gave Auston space to adjust, he still worked his way into every conversation like the pariah he was in a city like Toronto.

He'd tried talking to Mitch about it, but was laughed off with a mere, “oh he's just used to JVR beside his stall, he's trying, don't worry, he told me.” And it wasn't that he didn't believe Auston didn't tell Mitch anything, it was more that Auston probably left out but details on when, where, and how that would have portrayed him as the villain more than once.

Take for example, a post-practice lunch with Mitch at a tiny corner restaurant a few blocks away from the Ricoh Coliseum. A quaint, homely place that sold double-decker sandwiches and had the waiters take up your first and last name, making it impossible to not be recognized. The nice thing about it was that despite the obvious realization dawning on the waitresses face, she didn't parade about her new discovery nor treat them different, simply laid down two glasses of water and returned with menus.

They chose a spot by the window, gambling with fate all the while. While relatively green, a few flurries were dangling down from the sky, and it was easy to see more coming down in the following weeks. Mitch had gone with roast beef, Dylan with ham and cheese (which got a disgusted tongue stick from Mitch) and as they were waiting for their orders to come through, Mitch’s phone lit alive with messages.

“What the hell?” Mitch mumbled, half to himself, picking it up and tapping in his password.

“What is it?”

“Auston is liking my old shit again,” Mitch said, but didn’t elaborate. Mitch was able to put his phone down for a second before he was up and at ‘em again; Snapchat’s incessant chimes too much of a lure for him to ignore.

Mitch giggled to himself, turning his phone around so that Dylan could look.

It was Auston all right, but not at all like how he’d anticipated. The snap was taken from a side angle, captain reading _Fortnite_ alongside a few heart-eye emoticons with a controller straddling Auston’s lap. The difference in professionalism was that his shirt was discarded and thrown over the arm of the couch; sweatpants barely clinging to his hips and forming an incriminating v-shape.

“He’s such a goof, ain’t he? You need to come play in a tournament with us sometime. He’s so bad it’s not even funny.” He paused. “Okay that’s a lie; it’s pretty funny.”

“He’s not very subtle about showing off,” was all Dylan could say. Mitch laughed again.

“He’s a player. Does this all the time. It’s his equivalent of some exotic bird mating dance.” Mitch cawed and flapped his arms, prompting a snort from Dylan. It got them a few looks from around the shop, so Mitch made an immediate halt and shrank back. “It’s one way to attract the hookups.”

“Like you?”

“Nah, Auston would at least wine and dine _this_ stallion. I’m top tier perfection,” Mitch said, as he wiggled his fork at Dylan. Dylan rolled his eyes, finally taking a bite of his sandwich and revelling in the explosion of taste that popped up and down his tongue. Toronto’s culture brimmed in the roots of its small establishments, the ones that sprung up hoping for a first or second chance at success. He’d missed it in his time living in Arizona, if only because he was too stubborn to venture out from downtown or visit locales that were far too distant in taste and style from home.

And while it was supposed to be a business-casual lunch before they crashed at Dylan’s place for a pre-game nap, the tension from the locker room was very much apparent with every ding from Mitch’s phone. It was like Auston was watching from over their shoulder, his distaste with their interaction only made all the more known with how long he pestered Mitch for. The discomfort seeped into their conversation until they were reduced to simple grunts around their food.

And needless to say, Dylan hated the weighted press it dove between them.

x

Mitch had developed a habit of going through the front doors on his way for games; the perfect opportunity for the media to get their much-beloved shots for the pre-game to flash in front of people and their television screens. Since the team was content with giving Dylan the cold shoulder, he tagged along with a spring to his step, putting up his best face so that to the public it looked like he was integrated well enough. It was supposed to be an outlet, something pure that they could share.

But apparently, it was another unspoken rule that Auston and Mitch walked the walk together, nevermind the fact that Dylan not once saw him accompanying Mitch the first few times he took the route. In his opinion, after that, fair’s fair. There was no reserved spot with Auston’s name tattooed onto it

It garnered more snarls, more dirty looks, and an unexpected heavy check at practice that pummelled oxygen out of his lungs like someone had wrung him dry. Auston had apologized after, offered him a hand in good sportsmanship, but the sneer he most certainly acted on behind his back said enough. Auston Matthews hated him, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

So out of spite, he continued making the walk with Mitch.

If Auston was going to get pissy with him, it better be about something reasonable, like a turnover that cost the game or a challenge of leadership despite being a metaphorical rookie on the team. He initiated his plan of action in November, no longer shying away and instead becoming content with ignoring Auston’s presence altogether. He flanked Mitch, wore stupid matching ties that they bought together, danced to the music blared through the ACC’s overhead speakers, and high-fived enthusiastic fans on his way through.

Later that week in practice, an unfortunate line fix had him playing on Auston’s wing. It was a full two hours of harassment and missed passed because their chemistry was so rocky. Nylander, who’d taken the left, copied some of the behaviour, blaming bad passes when Dylan was the reciprocal on him and parroting Auston’s biggest complaints. Babcock didn’t put them on the same line again.

When December rolled around, a change in position was garnered. To Dylan’s surprise, what should have been an easy walk to the front doors became a shoving match as Auston shouldered by him to walk next to Mitch. The only difference this time was that Mitch looked uncomfortable, greeting him only in voice and not in posture.

Still, he knew better to banter with the lord and saviour of Toronto, so he hung back and let them talk. He picked up on more Fornite, but it was overall very one-sided, with Mitch only contributing one-word answers. Auston was persistent, still pestering him with self-deprecating insults and lingo Dylan couldn’t hope to understand in an effort to win him back.

He could almost smirk to himself; poetic justice. Auston got the spot, but Mitch was less than inclined to humour him. By the time they reached the locker room, Mitch was trailing behind and joining Dylan at his stall for a quick pre-game chat on techniques. He could cringe knowing the backlash from it, but was willing to put up for it for a few licks of victory.

During the game when he scored on the power play, Auston skated over to Kapanen and celebrated with him instead. Kapanen was able to cast a distant look before a semi-circle imposed on them, leaving Dylan alone and to the mercy of the media photographers capturing the rare moment of the selection process. Looking from the outside in made for more of a story than trying to decipher Auston’s true intentions, whatever they may be.

x

He thought Auston wanted to be his friend, but obviously, that wasn’t the case. The addiction to the tempered verbal lashings and obscure little shoves was making up for all of Auston’s interactions now. He liked to think it would be tolerable, but the side effect of making enemies with Auston was not having a confidant on the team he could talk business or emotions with. His sole companion was Mitch, and pulling Mitch away from his friends made them grow more pissed with Dylan.

It conspired in a week of little to no sleep; road trips where despite having Mitch as quiet as could be asleep in the other bed--since he now refused to share rooms with Auston and his bitchy behaviour--his eyes would not close.

His mother always told him back in preschool when kids would pull at his curls and make fun of his drooping eyelids that they were jealous. He had something they didn’t, a lightness, a pinch of humour, a comfort with his identity they lacked. Auston was such an enigma because by all means, he had the world eating out of his palm. A higher, non-entrance salary, fans by the dozens climbing into his lap at local bars, all the sponsorships a man could want. But Dylan had Mitch. And that was enough. He’d taken Auston’s best friend--despite not taking him at all--and it somehow justified the rotten conduct given to him.

Well, if mother knew best, then confrontation would be his only means of defence. Otherwise, all his social outputs were helpless, vain efforts that would fall on deaf ears. Popularity-wise, he was outmatched in every league.

So his solution was to get up in Auston’s face, one morning after practice, because he wasn’t dealing with this anymore. He wasn’t putting his life on hold for Auston’s finicky tastes. And if Auston was giving a cool glare as he approached, the lack of personal space more than limiting, then that was just something he’d have to deal with.

“Hey, can we talk?” Dylan spat out, giving the team a wary look. All eyes were on them, waiting for what would transpire when the two big personalities collided. Auston was quiet for a minute, before relenting with a nod and leading them out in the direction of the equipment room where they could get some privacy.

All nerves were on edge, the thrilling wait as they pulled up by the benches and crossed his arms.

“Talk,” Auston said, voice using more force than necessary.

“Look, there’s no easy way to say this, but you’ve got to tell me why you’re so obsessed with causing me misery. It can’t just be Mitchy, I have to be doing something else wrong.” Auston looked entirely disinterested in what he was saying, nostrils flaring.

“You’re not doing something wrong, because you don’t _do_ anything,” Auston replied, on the heels of Dylan’s disclosure. His vocal range had increased too, making him appear to yell throughout his conviction. “You just stand around and mess with our team relationship.”

Dylan could feel a growl budding at the back of his throat. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have so much difficulty making friends if you didn’t talk behind my back all the time. For God’s sake, give me a chance.”

It was very telling that Auston had disapproved of him, but to try and pawn it off on something entirely unrelated for the sake of proving a point was almost worse than him flat out lying. There was no point to cornering and teasing the truth out of Auston if he was going to mask his true intentions with someone flimsy.

Auston’s eyes widened. “You got plenty of chances, but you prefer to live in the past as opposed to the present. You can’t just come here and then single one of us out. That’s not how it works.”

“So tell me how Toronto works. You get stuck up in your own tradition enough to harass me with every chance you get? You despise rookies and traded players for the simple fact that they’re who they are? Or is Auston Matthews exempt from civil treatment?”

“Don’t sass me, you have no right,” Auston hissed, appearing to grow five times his regular size as a result of his bad temperament. Dylan couldn’t deny it was intimidating; there’d never been a record of Auston Matthews throwing the first punch in a fight but that didn’t mean he was going to volunteer to be his victim. Hockey took a backseat to personal endeavours, so he presumed.

“How about you show me some respect before you demand it from me?”

“What’s going on in here? Auston!” Mitch intervened, putting a sizeable space in between both of them as he spread his arms out to make room. “What is the matter with you?” Despite Mitch’s aggravated stance and puffed up cheeks and eyes, his appearance had a major change in how Auston assessed the situation. The hand on Auston’s shoulder had him deflate almost immediately, the eyes once so full of spite now directed at Mitch with an honesty that was so blatant it sent Dylan for a loop. The big mess of emotions brimming inside instantly told him everything he needed to know; he was way over his head.

Auston wasn’t mad at him because Mitch was replacing Auston with him. Auston’s affections for the winger went beyond late night gaming and card games by the hotel ice box because the power was out. It was a deep-seated, warm kind of affection. A genre of love he’d seen in the eyes of fans and past girlfriends alike.

But when his eyes rose again to look over Mitch’s head, the anger resurfaced, same as before. It was like someone had set the reset button, intruded on something they weren’t supposed to see. And in a way, the second they shared was only for them--something secretive and only theirs to nurture.

Auston didn’t try to push Mitch back when he got up in his face, but the warning snort that resumed soon after was enough. “The matter with me? Dylan is the one that asked me to come out here.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t been pulling the strings. I kept my mouth closed until now but this is the last straw. I never took you for such a bully, but I suppose you can’t trust anyone anymore.”

“I’m not a bully. I can’t believe he’d have you think that. I’m not a bully for standing up for my teammates.”

“You never did this with Plekanec or Andy, so don’t pull that shit with me.” The conversation began to drown out in Dylan’s ears. The shapes blurred and the arguing figures became blobs blending into the background walls and equipment stands.

He’d stumbled onto something much bigger than expected.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to get your act together before it starts affecting the rest of the team,” Mitch sneered, right up in Auston’s face again where it couldn’t be misread or overlooked. Auston stared back, lip curled, but made no effort to correct Mitch or try to raise his voice about another minor obstruction of Dylan’s. He waited out Mitch’s patience without any verbal or physical response, arms crossed and barring over his chest.

“C’mon Dylan, let’s go. I don’t have time for this,” Mitch finally said, and practically carried Dylan out of the room. His hold was so powerful Dylan swore he could feel the circulation cut off, the anger at Auston channelled into a new form of bitterness he’d never seen Mitch brandish before.

x

It was the exact opposite of the resolution he’d been looking for; the confrontation had only served to make Mitch painfully aware of the divide between the two of them and had compelled him to pick a side in the game of chess in the locker room. Dylan’s side, to be more precise, which opened up a can of worms because the first instinct to seeing Mitch quite literally sit in his lap at a team dinner, plastered, was to buck him up and off because it would meet its dramatic finish at the hands of Auston. After all, that’s what happened every other time Dylan stepped out of line.

Auston’s focused had shifted though, from Dylan to Mitch. Rather than bump shoulders or insult him with his former friends and would-be teammates, Auston chose to parade after Mitch like a peacock on display. He quite literally chased after his heels and sucked up as much as possible to make up for the shared blows from the Monday before. It was a lost cause though, Mitch had decided the second they left the Mastercard Arena that Auston was a secondary priority, a source of shame.

He hadn’t even made an attempt to fill Dylan in on the new development, just walked away, wordlessly. Some of the unspoken aggression came out in the form of little temper tantrums and weighed slapshots at practice. Mitch wasn’t one to let his actions speak for themselves--he was a very verbal person--but the skirmish must’ve corrupted something inside that had constrained his voice. He was but a mute puppet, not saying he was there for Dylan but conveying it in his silent approach to committing warfare against Auston.

Mitch was blatant, showy, and not necessarily in ways that made Dylan comfortable either. Anything he could do to piss Auston off he tried, and though their relationship did suffer, it was their hockey that was the real victim. The chemistry between all the lines suffered; Auston was unwilling to confide in his linemates, Mitch was stewing because of Auston’s involvement, and Dylan was too shell-shocked to process the change to their team dynamic. There was nowhere to go but down.

But even with Mitch being whiny and very much an exhibitionist in how he proceeded with Dylan, Auston’s personality had undergone a complete one-eighty. Now he was playing the part of the Good Samaritan, holding out chairs, keeping doors open for his teammates--pretty much anything he could to get back on Mitch’s nice side. Dylan even caught him passing the tape or playing the part of his shooting partner at practice like that erased everything that had happened.

It was empty. All empty. Because no matter how often Auston tried to pretend he liked Dylan, it was just a stepping stone he was using to get Mitch back with, and then the rotten behaviour would resume all the same.

So the tension built. And built. And built. Plane rides stretched on for hours, buses even worse because the close proximity was stifling for all of them. What should have been his dream come true was now the facade of greatness pulled away to reveal the shit behind the curtains. Toronto was no better than Arizona was; if anything worse, because he was miserable without a single friend by his side that wasn’t using him to one-up someone else.

One thing was for sure, Mitch’s intervention was doing more harm than good. Not that Dylan didn’t appreciate the occasional kindness here and there, but now the problem transcended them. The team was on a losing streak because two idiots couldn’t get their act together--because it was crystal clear that Auston was trying to obscure his feelings and use Dylan to prove a point.

They made it to January, past Christmas break and New Years, for there to be any development, with the unfortunate result of the holidays being sullied with pouting looks and wordless encounters with close family and old friends. But Babcock’s patience had worn thin, the media desperate for answers, and if someone didn’t crack soon the whole ship was going to sink.

Dylan was almost afraid it would have to be him. He was never good at that kind of thing, and his last attempt only proved it. But if he was losing his mind, he didn’t even want to imagine how Auston felt. To be a bystander, on the fringes of society and a long-standing friendship, unable to get back in. Someone like him wouldn’t have been frozen out beyond the topic of old girlfriends, so this had to be an all-new experience for him.

What transpired was Arizona. Just, Arizona. Hot, sticky, cactus-filled Arizona, with its prickly people and incredibly barren and dull landscape. He should’ve known that playing here came with trouble, not only because Merks was breathing down his neck for a reunion dinner with Mitch still grumbling behind him on the plane, but also because Auston was up and announcing that he was having company over at the practice rink the next morning.

Although compelled to babysit Mitch, Merks was a much better distraction, and one that wouldn’t pull at his hair in the middle of the night like a grubby toddler. And he was also an actual friend. A real, living, breathing friend that wasn’t spiteful or trying to channel an inner demon with how often he fumed, huffed, and growled at himself in the bathroom mirror. Not to mention, he paid for dinner like a true gentleman.

It wasn’t the first time he imagined what things would be like if he stayed in Arizona. At least there he was somebody. Roadrunners and Coyotes aside, people liked him. For him. A genuine liking that he’d worked so hard for here and never achieved all because one player wanted to play keep away.

One thing was for sure, he almost cried, seeing Merks again, getting to hold him. If there was anyone he genuinely missed and wanted to bring with him, it was Merks. Cheerful, skilled, and diverse in his expertise, and the perfect complimentary partner. It was a shame that what they had was cut back so soon, because he believed it would have grown into something beautiful. A Davo and Stromer level of beautiful.

For then, he concerned himself with trying to not break the orderly persona and order from the fancy, cursive dinner menus. Later on, though he was sure he looked like he was five, he found himself taking his anger out on the steak he ordered with miniturature stabbing motions. Sure, he might’ve looked like a serial killer in training, but Merks smiled and jeered him on playfully, so in the end, did it really matter in the grand scheme of things?

x

Auston spent the night at his parent’s house, which meant no hotel drama. One night of sanity in a long-running standoff he didn’t want to be part of. The next morning, he wasn’t so lucky. True to his word, Auston showed up at practice with his mother, father, and younger sister in tow, all wielding their own Matthews jerseys despite it being an overly-mild day outside, a commodity in the downtown scene.

Auston was a fucking jerk, there was no doubt about it, but his mother was the sweetest woman known to man. Babcock was sure to fill them in about her contributions to the hockey community in Arizona and just how much she gave up to ensure Auston made it as far as he did during drills, mainly to embarrass and expose Auston, but also to fluster the other players into poking fun at him in an attempt to lighten the mood. They gave her a pair of skates near practice’s end, and she joined them for a few laps, which was the highlight of the monotony.

She was immediately drawn to Mitch, who wasn’t shaking her off but did have to maintain his guise of disappointment and anger with Auston as she placated her with easy conversation topics; her son lingering behind like a wallflower. When she inevitably tried to get them for a picture minutes later, Mitch pointedly skated to collect Dylan, putting him in between himself and Auston and only then donning the fakest smile a hockey player could muster as he stared down the camera’s eye. The air crackled right in front of their noses; Dylan knew Auston was looking at him through his peripheral without even having to turn his head.

“Smile,” she said, clenched between her teeth as the flash went off. Dylan blinked it away, refusing to look to his left.

“Oh thank you--I’m sorry Papi, I’ll let you talk with your friends. Mitch, you come over for dinner tonight, d’you hear?” Mitch nodded obediently, waving her off with conviction. Babcock went on to distract her, but she took with her the remaining civility they had left. The dam broke open the second Auston turned on his dominant skate to put himself up in Dylan’s face.

“I saw you leave with Merkley last night, what’s your game Strome? Because fuck it if Mitch hates me forever, you’re not allowed to break his heart.” Auston purposely muffled his voice to keep Mitch from clinging to the coattails of what he said, but the close proximity of the both of them was enough to send off the alarm bells. Auston was on the verge of his next threat when Mitch gave him a violent shove that had him fumbling for balance on the heel of his skates.

“Fuck you Auston,” Mitch said. “Fuck you. You fucking asshole.” Mitch grappled with Dylan’s shoulder again, taking him in one hand to push him in the opposite direction and away from a befuddled Auston still making his recovery.

They didn’t make it far before they heard the telling sound of skate blades hitting the ice approached and Auston veered in front of them again, blocking the path they were headed on with open arms.

“Wait, Mitch. We need to talk,” he declared. Mitch shook his head back and forth, helmet straps knocking against the butt of his chin.

“There’s nothing to say. I can’t believe you think you could treat Dylan like this. Right in front of my face.”

“That’s because you’ve been avoiding me since _he_ got here!” he accused, sticking a finger right in Dylan’s face that compelled him to make a mock biting motion to scare it away. “But that’s beyond the point, he--”

“Dylan is my friend. One of my oldest friends. Of course I want to be there for him, especially in such a time of hardship. Just shut the fuck up, I don’t want to hear from you anymore.” This time, Mitch didn’t think twice about turning on his blades and letting go of Dylan to propel himself forward. Auston was quicker in restraining him this time, letting Mitch beat his gloved hands against his chest just to keep him in close proximity.

“I’m your friend too. But you’re acting like I don’t exist,” he said, mouth dangerously close to the skin of Mitch’s forehead.

“Auston, I spent almost all my time with you. You’re being selfish.” Auston reared up like a startled horse, and the perpetual anxiety swirling in Dylan’s stomach sunk as if it’s congealed into a rock. If Mitch was going to rock the boat, it was better he not do it when the person Auston’s anger was geared towards was standing right beside him.

“ _I’m_ being selfish? Maybe you’re too caught up in your fantasy world with Stromer right now, but we haven’t had time to ourselves since, well, last year. I don’t see you outside of practice, games, and team outings. You ignore my texts. You glare at me from across the room. You won’t talk with me about anything but hockey. What happened to my best friend?”

“Don’t pretend like if one of your American buddies came up you wouldn’t spend time with them.”

“There’s spending time with them and being obsessed with them. I would always find time for you, you know that.”

Mitch laughed, but it was devoid of humour. “Like all the times you abandoned us to chat up the local _girls_ eh? Your adoring little fans.” He purposely injected what came off as helium into his voice, the squeaky addition not boding well with his deep pitch.

“I stopped doing that when you talked to me. I realized I was wrong and stopped. You can’t hold that against me. Not compared to you and him. Not when he’s out having an affair with an old fling. You can’t tell me you don’t care about that.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about now? Just get away from me.” Auston didn’t look like he was inclined to do so; he looked ready to go on a rampage and Dylan was his target. Mitch was able to see him glare this time, and reaffirmed his position in between them.

“Auston, leave him alone. If you’re going to be angry, be angry with me. But leave Dylan alone.”

“But he’s all you think about now. That’s unhealthy!” he said, like he was one to talk. Fucking hypocrite.

“I’m my own person. If I want to spend time with Dylan, you have to respect that, and you haven’t.” Mitch pushed them both back, nearly having them collide face-first with the ice.

By then, the remainder of the team had caught onto something brewing on the other end of the ice, a few members of the coaching staff Dylan had the pleasure of running laps for putting themselves between Auston’s mother and father to ensure they wouldn’t get involved in the scuffle. Not that it made a difference, they looked rooted to their spots, content to just observe the proceedings.

“It’s not fair, not to me. I’ve always been here and you forgot me, just like that. “

“We were friends Matts. Friends come and go. If you can’t respect Dylan is one then I guess you’re not a good friend to me.”

Auston straightened his back. “Am I really just a friend though?” And the impression that Dylan had walked into something personal was amplified tenfold.

“Auston,” Mitch placated, casting a nervous glance in Dylan’s general direction. Dylan took the liberty of looking down, unwilling to make eye contact in light of the new revelation. “Not here. Let’s not talk about this here.”

“No,” Auston replied. “We are, because otherwise you’re just going to run away again.”

“So is that what this is; some stupid sense of entitlement? It was one night Matts, and you said you didn’t want it to mean anything.”

“I know what I said but I was wrong. You made me realize I was wrong. I want it now, and thinking that you’d found someone else was--”

“So this wasn’t a best friend fight?”

“No, it was more of a,” Auston slowed, expression pinched, “not jealous but, upset kind of thing. I thought you two were in a relationship.” His accusation made a lot more sense--about Merks. But not only was that out of the realm of plausibility, it was plain stupid.

“Mitch is my best friend,” Dylan interjected. “I mean, he’s nice and all but right now I just want to play in Toronto. Relationships are off the table.”

Neither of the other two made an attempt to reply to his admission; Mitch looked embarrassed, flushed and all, and Auston still looked pissed. Dylan wet his bottom lip with his tongue and then made a nervous gesture at the benches, backing up quickly enough that his skates kicked up chips of ice and nearly made him trip. It didn’t matter--neither of them were paying attention. Caught up in their own world, he slipped unawares out.

When he re-entered the dressing room, the scowls and angry eyes were stabbing daggers in to his back. Some of the players were hanging around in their suits and sweatpants, waiting out the argument to see the effects of Dylan’s intervention. But this wasn’t a broadway performance, nor a screenplay. Dylan couldn’t withhold the snappish way in which he moved to his bag and stall, keeping his distance and shrugging off Connor when he tried to nudge at him with his foot for details to munch on.

Mitch and Auston were out longer than necessary, the tension in the room ground out and the rookies thoroughly petrified, almost stinking with anxiety. When they did return, Mitch’s back was still hung strung, but the muscles in his face were relaxed enough to reverberate waves of calm among everyone else. Whatever conflict had been troubling on them had been ironed out enough to justify an end to the one on one staring competition they’d held for months now. Auston in particular looked pleased, but whatever satisfied look had sculpted on his face vanished when the scan of the room showed Dylan, still pressed up against his stall and watching warily.

Auston brought one hand up to rub at the back of his neck, his hesitation noticed and picked at by Mitch, who’d harshly elbowed him until he grunted. That spurred him into approaching Dylan, his hulking mass immediately tuning Dylan’s fight or flight response until he was ready to sprint for the doors regardless of what it made him look like.

“Strome. Uh, Dylan,” he started, but looked to be still plucking the words he wanted to use. Mitch was watching with arms crossed, chasing away a few of the bystanders craning their heads to get a look at them.

“Yes?” he questioned, toes curling inside of his shoes in anticipation. He had the weirdest compulsion to swipe the stray hairs littering his face away, just to maintain that air of professionalism that Auston carried with ease.

“Dylan, I want to-” he stopped himself, sucking in a bout of air. “Can we go outside? I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“If you have to say something, say it here,” Dylan said, unwilling to disadvantage himself again. Whatever was troubling Auston so much--no doubt the apology that was due months back--should become public knowledge, just as how Auston had reduced Dylan to a laughing stock in his own locker room. There was no reason he should be vulnerable without Auston feeling the same; experiencing the same treatment he tormented Dylan with.

“Fine,” Auston choked out. “I wanted to say what I did was out of line. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. You deserve better for a friend, and I had no right to treat you like you didn’t belong here.”

“Are you just doing this to do it, or am I just lucky?” Dylan couldn’t help but spite him, taking the power of the situation into his own hands.

“Dylan,” Auston’s voice bordered on a warning. “What I did, I did because I was jealous. I thought you were trying to tear me and Mitch apart. I was scared of losing my friend so I lashed out.”

“I tried to tell you that wasn’t the case, but you never listened.”

“I know, I know. Sometimes you’re just so scared that you can’t help it, y’know? I thought you had something I didn’t and I felt like I needed to do something. Either way, I was in the wrong. You don’t have to forgive me, but you deserve to hear it.” The anger died on the tip of Dylan’s tongue, if only because he looked so much like a kicked puppy.

He was giving up a ripe opportunity to rub his victory in Auston’s face, but that would make him no better. He was better than that now. “No need for some big speech, I get the message. Let’s just move on. Start over.” He held his hand out and Auston took it, shaking it with undisguised gratitude.

“Yeah. Start over. I mean, if you want space that’s fine, but I hope we can still play together.” And wasn’t that always what Dylan wanted? To play in Toronto and hold the cup once in his lifetime, as a member of his childhood team no less? A small, indistinguishable grin broke out on his face, relief unmatched by anything else. It didn’t matter that he was still in a crowded locker room, because the compulsion to breakdown was finally alleviated and replaced with something much better.

Auston would pull him aside later, take him back to his house before Mitch arrived for dinner and a pre-game nap to sit him down on his couch. Scrunch his shoulders up and try to look humble as Dylan nursed the drink he was given, as he buckled down for the real apology Dylan had sensed was stuck in the back of his throat.

“I love him,” was the first thing to leave his mouth. Followed by a “Mitch” that wasn’t necessary; there was no doubt who the conversation was about. Not like it was a surprise, but Dylan thought the insecure little peeps he made would help egg Auston on.

“When I first saw you here, I thought you two were friends, and you were, but a part of me also led me to believe that there was something more. That you and Marns had the same thing we had, and that he was moving on because I didn’t take action. That I was too late in advancing. And I hated myself more than I thought I hated you.” His hands fell to his knees, head tucked in between his arms as he spilt himself out in the form of words; performing home surgery on his emotions that Dylan was witness to.

“I see,” he said, but Auston wasn’t finished.

“I took it out on you, but that wasn’t okay. Even if you two were an item, it wouldn’t be okay. But we fixed it. I just wish the cost of us figuring ourselves out wasn’t your happiness. You were suffering and I refused to see it. For that, Dylan, I am so, so sorry.” His voice was raw, scratchy even, like he’d been crying.

“Dude, it’s okay.” And it wasn’t, it really, really wasn’t. But just the thought that he’d interfered with something so personal was like taking a sharpened blade to the chest. Mitch was his top priority now, and he wanted Mitch to be happy; didn’t want to be the new kid that was pandered to, having his every need fulfilled. If he was standing in the way of something bigger, it was better he know.

There was still a destitute abyss of awkwardness in their interactions eventually resulting in Dylan having to leave early to make a late dinner for himself and call his mother before he departed for the bus, but it was partially healed. Partially fixed, and he didn’t have to be scared now, because Auston Matthews didn’t hate him anymore.

x

It didn’t magically get better after that; Auston still had his movements of possessiveness and the team built on a foul understanding of Dylan takes time to persuade and bond with. But getting to play in the ACC during the celebratory pride nights and cancer awareness campaigns, taking the hockey world by storm, heck, making it to the first, second, third round of the playoffs after being told he would amount to nothing made it all worth it. 

It was like some angel came straight out of heaven to grant him his one wish of playing hockey, and playing it well.

Because there are no words in the dictionary that can describe the wonder of owning a building that shrieks your name and seeing your face on a pair of socks two years down the line. That’s something entirely reserved to his emotional prowess; having his parents and grandparents come to his games regularly and act as though they were standing under a microphone throughout the periods, closing in on the cameras by intermission. It’s having everything he ever wanted and more.

No one was prouder than Mitch, a long underestimated best friend, who had supported him since day one even when it sabotaged a superstar’s courting methods. Knowing he would be behind him, knocking his stick against the bench to pay homage to a goal and later curling themselves up in blankets on pay-per-view movies as they talk about times long past--and being able to do it knowing he’s not violating some unspoken law. It was nice. What he wanted; _needed,_ even--that validation that eluded him for three years and stabbed him mercilessly in the back when he required it most. And he was happy to pay it back in spades, nodding when Auston paid them a visit in the dead of night or turning his head to the side to give them privacy when they kissed. It wasn't much, but it was the most he could do for his dearest, most beloved friend.

It was kind of ironic. An enemy turned friend being romanced by yet another enemy turned friend. As if fate had stitched them together using him as a crutch to make it possible.

It all came to coalition the first time he scored a hat trick against Columbus, when the first person to skate up was Auston Matthews, a wide, unending smile on his face. And not only did Dylan feel forgiven, he felt whole again.

That’s something that could never be taken away.

**Author's Note:**

> come chat with me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr; ask me questions and I will talk forever about fics, as well as post art, hint at new stories, and post teasers.


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